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Oberon and Puck. 



Oberon and Puck 



VERSES GRAVE AND GAY 



BY 



HELEN GRAY CONE 






_ 



o 



NOV 27 n ( 



J&J 



NEW YORK 

CASSELL & COMPANY, Limited 

739 & 741 BROADWAY 



\\% 



76 )3£1 



Copyright, 1883, 
Bv O. M. Dunham. 



PRESS OF HUNTER &. BEACH, 
NEW YORK. 



CONTENTS. 



OBERON. 

PAGE 
Oberon Ir 

The Accolade .14 

The Olive Bough 2I 

Flower Fancies : I. — A Yellow Pansy 25 

II. — A House Divided 2 _ 

III. — A Song of Failure 2 g 

IV.— The Dandelions . . „. 

• • • ^y . 

V.— A Fairy Tale 30 

Lepage's Joan of Arc , 2 

The Merchant of Venice . . ,. 

• • • 34 

A Nocturne of Rubinstein 

An Epitaph on a Butterfly Drowned in the Sea . . .41 

Emelie 

.... 43 

Elsinore .46 

FlAMMETTA _ 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Haroun al Raschid 53 

A Rondel of Parting 55 

A Christmas Greeting 5 6 

At Easter-Tide 57 

To-Day 5 8 

A Conservative 59 

A Radical 6o 

A Retrograde 6i 

The Resolve 62 

The Nooning 63 

The Inheritance 64 

Long Summer Days 66 

The Goldenrod 67 

Hey Robin, Jolly Robin ! £9 

The Undersong 71 

The Passing of the Year 72 

A Charmed Cup 73 

In Hush of Night 74 

The Wayfarers ' . 76 

An Invocation in a Library 78 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 80 

Ralph Waldo Emerson 82 

On Landor's Hellenics 83 

Bach's St. Matthew Passion Music 84 

Salvini's Othello 85 

Ellen Terry's Beatrice ........ 86 

" Songs of a Semite " 87 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

On Reading the Poems of Edith Thomas .... 89 

Posies : I. — Friendship . 90 

II. — A Rose . 90 

III. — Wistaria 91 

IV. — On a Fly-Leak gi 

An Ivory Miniature 92 

To My Goldfish .95 

"As the Crow Flies " 97 

Sprigs o' Heather : I. — To Comin' Years .... 98 

II. — WoNDERFU' SLEE . 99 

III. — My Ain, Ain Lass ioo 

Evening Primroses 102 

A Humming-Bird 103 

Child Songs : I. — Wool Gathering 104 

II. — The Land Without a Name 105 

III. — A Lullaby 106 



PUCK. 

Puck 109 

Narcissus in Camden no 

The Song of Sir Palamede 118 

A Merry Jest of a Modern Maid 123 

The Rhyme of the Hercules Club 125 

The Ballad of Cassandra Brown 129 

The Sweet o' the Year 132 

The Tender Heart 138 

vii 



OBERON. 



OBERON. 

O BE RON, Elferon, 
Pleasant Prince of Faery! 

He should scarce be sung of me,— 
Me, his humblest follower 
Wheresoe'er a branch may stir 
Signing, "This way hath he gone, 

Oberon, Elferon, 
Pleasant Prince of Faery!" 

He should scarce be sung of me; 
Yet, because, of his high grace, 
I had glimpse once of his face,— 
Moment sweet to think upon! — 
I his celebrant will be. 

Blood of Pan is in his veins, 
And oft he goes in great Pan's guise; 
But not of Pan is all his mood, 
Godlike-careless, dreamy-wise : 



OBERON. 

Conscious he of mortal pains ! 
He hath shadows in his eyes 
Such as under hemlocks brood ; 
In his voice he hath a tone 
Like unto the dark pine's moan; 
Northland bore him, not the South ! 
Yet rare laughters hath his mouth, 
Birch-leaf laughters, rippling light. 



Clear the sense of every sign 

Is unto his perfect sight, 

Sight as May-day morning young: 

Sounds unto his hearing fine 

Are as words of some known tongue. 

Cuckoo-flower by Avon's brim, 

Muskrose rich, or eglantine, 

Saith nor more nor less to him 

Than arbutus softly saith 

With its blush and with its breath. 

Nightingale in Attic wood 

Is no deeper understood 

Than our bent-browed mocker gray, 

With his bright eye cool and clear, 

Sad and tender, wild and gay, 

Dashing skeptic cavalier ! 



OBERON. 

He hath not the virtue missed 

In our violet's amethyst, 

All unscented as it grows : 

Healings hid in jewel-tints 

Of wing and petal well he knows ! 

Gems the shining black-bird shows 

On his purple as he goes, 

And the blue jay's sapphire-glints, 

And the burning, cordial gold 

Of the oriole blithe and bold. 

He can read the cipher-prints 

On the vans of butterflies, 

On the eggs of tiniest wren ; 

He can read the scarred rock's hints 

And the legends of the skies ; 

And he can read the hearts of men. 

Ah, since thou hast smiled on me, 
Though thy face no more I see, 
Never win thy benison, 
I must follow, follow thee, — 

Oberon, Elferon, 
Pleasant Prince of Poesy! 



THE ACCOLADE. 

A SONG FOR THE BEGINNING. * 
I. 

\TOW filled was all the sum 

Of serving years, and past, forever past, 
All duties, all delights, of young esquires : 
And to the altar and the hour at last, — 
The hour, the altar, of his dear desires, — 
Clear-shriven and whitely clad the youth was come. 

II. 
Full many a squire was in that household bred 
To arms and honor and sweet courtesy, 
Who wore that sojourn's fragrant memory 
As amulet in after-battles dread ; 
And meeting in kings' houses joyously, 
Or, wounded, in the sedge beside a lake, 
Such men were bounden brothers, for the sake 
Of the blade that knighted and the board that fed. 



* A Commencement Poem, read to the Graduating Class at Smith College, 
June 18th, 1884. 



OBERON. 

III. 

To eastward builded was the oratory : 

There all the warm spring night, — while in the wood 

The buds were swelling in the brooding dark, 

And dreaming of a lordlier dawn the lark, — 

Paced to and fro the youth, and dreamed on glory, 

And watched his arms. Great knights in mailed hood 

On steeds of stone sat ranged along the aisle, 

And frowned upon the aspirant: "Who is he 

Would claim the name and join the company 

Of slayers of Soldans swart and Dragons grim, 

Not ignorant of wanded wizards' guile, 

And deserts parched, and waters wide to swim ? " 

He halted at the challenge of the dead. 

Anon, in twilight, fancy feigned a smile 

To curve the carven lips, as though they said, 

" Oh welcome, brother, of whom the world hath need ! 

Ere the recorded deed 
We trembled, hoped, and doubted, even as thou." 

And therewithal he lifted up his brow, 
Uplift from hesitance and humble fear, 
And saw how with the splendor of the sun 
The glimmering oriel blossomed rosy-clear; 
And lo, the Vigil of the Arms was done! 
15 



OBERON. 

IV. 

Now, mass being said, before the priest he brought 
That glittering prophecy, his untried sword. 
In some mysterious forge the blade was wrought, 
By shadowy arms of force that baffle thought 
Wrought curiously in the dim under-world ; 
And all along the sheath processions poured, 
Thronged shapes of earth's weird morn 
Ere yet the hammer of Thor was downward hurled : 
Not less it had for hilt the Cross of Christ the Lord, 
And must thereby in battle aye be borne. 

V. 

Cool-sprinkled with the consecrated wave, 

That blade was blessed, that it should strike to save ; 

And next, pure hands of youth in hands of age 

Were held upon the page 
Of the illuminate missal, full of prayers, — 
Rich fields, wherethrough the river of souls has rushed 
Long, long, to have its passion held and hushed 
In the breast of that calm sea whereto it fares : 
And steadfastly the aspirant vow did plight 
To bear the sword, or break it, for the Right; 
And living well his life, yet hold it light, — 
Yea, for that sovereign sake a worthless thing. 



OBERON. 

VI. 

Thereon a troop of maids began to bring, 
With flutter as of many-colored doves, 
The hauberk that right martially did ring, 

And weight of linked gloves, 
And helmet plumed, and spurs ablaze with gold. 
Each gave in gracious wise her guiding word, 
As bade or fresh caprice, or usance old : 
As, Ride thou swift by golden Honor spurred 
Or, Be thou faithful, fortunate, and bold. 
But scarce for his own heart the aspirant heard. 



VII. 



And armed, all save the head, 
He kneeled before his master gray and good. 
Like some tall, noble, ancient ship he stood, 

That once swept o'er the tide 
With banners, and freight of heroes helmeted 
For worthy war, and music breathing pride. 

Now, the walled cities won, 
And storms withstood, and all her story spun, 
She towers in sand beside some sunny bay, 
Whence in the silvery morn new barks go sailing gay. 



OBERON. 

So stately stood the Knight : 
And with a mighty arm, and with a blade 
Reconsecrate at fiery fonts of fight, 
He on the bowed neck gave the accolade. 

Yet kneeled the youth bewildered, for the stroke 
Seemed severance sharp of kind companionships; 
And the strange pain of parting in him woke; 
And as at midnight when a branch down dips 
By sudden-swaying tempest roughly stirred, 

Some full-fledged nested bird, 
Being shaken forth, though fain of late to fly, 
Now flickers with weak wing and wistful cry, — 

So flickered his desires 
'Twixt knighthood, and delights and duties of esquires. 
But even as with the morrow will uprise, 

Assured by azure skies, 
The bird, and dart, and swim in buoyant air, — 
Uprose his soul, and found the future free and fair ! 

VIII. 

And girded with Farewell and with Godspeed 

He sprang upon his steed. 
And forth he fared along the broad bright way ; 
And mild was the young sun, and wild the breeze, 
That seemed to blow to lands no eye had seen ; 



OBERON. 

And Pentecost had kindled all the trees 
To tremulous thin whispering flames of green. 
And given to each a sacred word to say ; 
And wind-fine voices of the wind-borne birds 
Were ever woven in among their words. 
Soft-brooding o'er the hamlet where it lay, 
The circling hills stood stoled with holy white, 
For orchards brake to blossom in the night ; 
And all the morning was one blown blue flower, 
And all the world was at its perfect hour. 
So fared he gladly, and his spirit yearned 
To do some deed fit for the deep new day. 

And on the broad bright way his armor burned, 
And showed him still, a shifting, waning star, 

To sight that followed far. 
Till, last, the fluctuant wood the flash did whelm, 
That flood-like rolled in li^ht and shadow o'er his helm. 



IX. 

I know not more : nor if that helm did rust 
In weed of some drear wilderness down-thrust, 

Where in the watches lone 
Heaven's host beheld him lying overthrown, 



OBERON. 

While God yet judged him victor, God whose laws 

Note not the event of battle, but the cause. 

I know not more : nor if the nodding prize 

Of lustrous laurels ere that helm did crown, 

While God yet judged him vanquished, God whose eyes 

Saw how his Demon smote his Angel down 

In some forgotten field and left him low. 

Only the perfect hour is mine to know. 



you who forth along the highway ride, 

Whose quest the whispering wood shall close around, 
Be all adventure high that may betide, 
And gentle all enchantments therein found ! 

1 would my song were as a trumpet-sound 

To nerve you and speed, and weld its notes with power 
To the remembrance of your perfect hour; 
To ring again and again, and to recall 

With the might of music, all : 
The prescience proud, the morning aspiration, 
But most the muttered vow, the inward consecration! 



THE OLIVE BOUGH. 

A SONG FOR THE END.* 
I. 

A S when, pursued by some swift Wind and bold 
■* Freed from the hollow dark JEol'mn hold, 

A cloud across the face of heaven is blown, 
And sunshine ceases from the fields, as mown 
By that long shadow sweeping o'er the wold, 

And the kind world turns cold — 

So o'er our chosen day 
Sails now a shadowing cloud that sweeps the sun away. 

Our chosen day, to Memory dedicate: 

To Memory, goddess great, 
A Proserpine that mid the dip and swell 
Of her wide meadows dim with asphodel 

Keeps aye one circle blest 
Lit with purpureal light unlike the rest : 



* A Memorial Pcem, read to the Associate Alumnae of the New York 
Normal College, June 30th, 1883. 



OBERON. 

The field of our first youth, as luminous 
Through soberer recollections, as the place 
Where looked the Dardan on his father's face 

In the land nebulous. 
The verdure of that valley is Spring's own 
Ampler the air — then, limits were not known 
To us that breathed it ; all that since has been 
Has its free freshness to our spirits proved. 

Oh circle blest indeed ! 
Dear, dear the faces that therein have moved, — 
Sad, sad to know it changelessly decreed 
We may no more behold them, save therein ! 

II. 

It was men's wont of old, 

Ere spoken was the Vale, deep, three-fold, 

From the full heart above the unanswering lip 

Of the bronze urn, in water clear to dip 

A branch, and sprinkle all with pure light spray : 

Or broken bough of bay 
Or olive called the happy, since it yields 

Fruit in unnumbered fields: 
For thus they deemed the influence done away 
Of barren Death, that else a spell might lay 
On the warm living, subtly to annul 
Their powers, and strike their fortunes cold and dull. 



OBERON. 

And we, who seek the soul in each old sign, 

Pleased if we may divine 
Likeness in difference, Proteus in disguise, 
And gazing backward with anointed eyes 
Across deep ages and the gulfs of race 

Know yet a brother's face, — 
We hail, in this the antique olive gray, 

A meaning of to-day, 

III. 

For surely this pale bough, with hoary leaf, 
Is symbol of one still thought that is ours 

After the fire of grief: 
Thought not unhappy, fruitful thought, that showers 
A lustral rain of gentle tears and pure, 
Breaking the spell of Death, that else were sure 

To chain our living powers, 
To lock Joy fettered in the frozen breast: 
The one calm thought, the peaceful thought, They rest. 

They rest : brief rest was theirs 
Ere set of sun, and long and full of cares 
The laboring day. 'Tis now as night, soft night, 
Descending and enfolding, whereon bright 
Old hours of toil are shining, sanctified 
To stars that light and guide ! 

23 



OBERON. 



IV. 



Ah, not with numbing of one noble hope 
Turn we from facing Death inexorable, 

But with strong souls and stable ! 

Deep heaven hath surely scope 
To hold each earnest hour, a jewel new, 

A star to light and guide : 
And Toil, that shears all knotted puzzles through, 
A stellar sword against the dark descried 
Shall burn, like Perseus' blade whereby the Gorgon died 

Far, far the Colchian shores, 
Weary the mid-sea laboring at the oars, 
And hard to pass the rough Symplegades : 

But, sail and storm-beat spars 
And wave-worn rudder pictured all in stars, 
Shines the ship Argo still above the Southern seas ! 



24 



FLOWER FANCIES. 



A YELLOW PANSY, 

' I "O the wall of the old green garden 

A butterfly quivering came ; 
His wings on the sombre lichens 
Played like a yellow flame. 

He looked at the gray geraniums, 
And the sleepy four-o'-clocks ; 

He looked at the low lanes bordered 
With the glossy-growing box. 

He longed for the peace and the silence, 
And the shadows that lengthened there, 

And his wee wild heart was weary 
Of skimming the endless air. 
25 



FLOWER FANCIES. 

And now in the old green garden,- 
I know not how it came, — 

A single pansy is blooming, 
Bright as a yellow flame. 

And whenever a gay gust passes, 
It quivers as if with pain, 

For the butterfly-soul that is in it 
Longs for the winds again! 



FLOWER FANCIES. 



II. 

A HOUSE DIVIDED. 

T N some past sunny season 

A shoot and stock were wed, — 
Made one by gardener's cunning, — 
A white rose and a red. 

And now the rosy brothers, 

All wonder, wonder why 
Their sister flowers are fragile, 

And strangely pale, and shy. 

Those flush and shake with laughter , 
These blanch and thrill with fears, 

And through the leaves come stealing, 
Slow-shed, their dewy tears. 



27 



FLOWER FANCIES. 

III. 

A SONG OF FAILURE. 

"\ 1 7"ITH green swords pointing to heaven, 
When the dawn flushed, glad to see, 
Like three gay knights in the garden 
Were flaunting the Fleurs-de-lis. 

And the plumes of two were purple, 

The color of hope and pride, 
And the last was snowy-crested, 

As a maiden soul should ride. 

But a wind from the west brought warning, 
And at noontide, a sound of power, 

We heard on the roofs loud-marching 
The steady feet of the shower. 

And the sharp green swords were broken, 

When the dusk fell, sad to see, 
And low, ah low, were lying 

The plumes of the Fleurs-de-lis ! 



28 



FLOWER FANCIES. 

IV. 
THE DANDELIONS. 

J PON a showery night and still, 
Without a sound of warning, 
A trooper band surprised the hill, 

And held it in the morning. 
We were not waked by bugle-notes, 

No cheer our dreams invaded, 
And yet, at dawn, their yellow coats 
On the green slopes paraded. 

We careless folk the deed forgot; 

Till one day, idly walking, 
We marked upon the self-same spot 

A crowd of veterans talking. 
They shook their trembling heads and gray 

With pride and noiseless laughter; 
When, well-a-day! they blew away, 

And ne'er were heard of after! 



39 



FLOWER FANCIES. 

V. 

A FAIRY TALE. 



*" I "'HERE stands by the wood-path shaded 
A A meek little beggar maid ; 
Close under her mantle faded 
She is hidden like one afraid. 



Yet if you but lifted lightly 
That mantle of russet brown, 

She would spring up slender and sightly, 
In a smoke-blue silken gown. 

For she is a princess, fated 

Disguised in the wood to dwell, 

And all her life long has awaited 
The touch that should break the spell ; 

And the Oak, that has cast around her 
His root like a wrinkled arm, 

Is the wild old wizard that bound her 
Fast with his cruel charm. 



FLOWER FANCIES. 

Is the princess worth your knowing? 

Then haste, for the spring is brief, 
And find the Hepatica growing, 

Hid under a last year's leaf ! 



LEPAGE'S JOAN OF ARC. 

/^~\NCE, it may be, the soft gray skies were dear, 
^-^^ The clouds above in crowds, like sheep below, 

The bending of each kindly wrinkled tree ; 
Or blossoms at the birth-time of the year, 
Or lambs unweaned, or water in still flow, 

In whose brown glass a girl her face might see. 

Such days are gone, and strange things come instead ; 
For she has looked on other faces white, 

Pale bloom of fear, before war's whirlwind blown ; 
Has stooped, ah Heaven ! in some low sheltering shed 
To tend dark wounds, the leaping arrow's bite, 

While the cold death that hovered seemed her own. 

And in her hurt heart, o'er some grizzled head, 
The mother that shall never be has yearned ; 
And love's fine voice, she else shall never hear, 
Came to her as the call of saints long dead ; 
And straightway all the passion in her burned, 
One altar-flame that hourly waxes clear. 



OBERON. 

Hence goes she ever in a glimmering dream, 
And very oft will sudden stand at gaze, 

With blue, dim eyes that still not seem to see : 
For now the well-known ways with visions teem ; 
Unfelt is toil, and summer one green daze, 
Till that the king be crowned, and France be free ! 



33 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 



' I "HE dusky star-set blue of Southern night; 

Music and song approaching and receding; 
Sweet sudden laughter-showers of masquers leading 

Across the moon-white square a merry flight, 

With breeze-blown torch and tossing cresset bright ; 
Gay Love and glad impetuous Youth unheeding, 
That float away to the lute's lovely pleading 

Down flowing hours smooth-silvered with delight. 



And last, a figure of a race despised 

Shadow in light, groan echoing to the laugh ; 
Bent haggard Age, with uplift shaken staff, 
At night's noon knocking, knocking at the door 

Of a gray, silent house, of that he prized 
Empty forever and forever more. 



OBERON. 

II. 

Lo, how the lips that Portia pressed but late 
Against the opened casket, blessing lead 
With the gold beauty of her bended head, 

In proud abandonment to that dear fate 

It gave her forth, the casket fortunate, — 
Lo, how these lips forego their wreathed red 
Above the scroll that speaks his danger dread 

Who holds her lover in sad heart and great ! 

Now in her spacious soul doth Sorrow meet 
Warm Joy, that, generous, gives the pale one place, 
And in the tremulous lines of her fair face 
An exquisite and soft remorse appears 

That Love, of right, must take the sovereign seat, 
And Friendship lower pass, for all his years. 



III. 



" I stand for law." It is the hour : behold 
The stem storm-buffeted, a spear grown strong 
For sternest deed in wanton winds of wrong. 
See Shylock from his sombre garment's fold 
The scales of Justice draw. No lavish gold 

35 



OBERON. 

Shall weigh with vengeance now ; he hears loud song 
And triumphing of timbrels from the long 
Dim ranks of Israel's branded dead untold. 

Oh, not alone this crooked blade unsheathes, 
Empowered at last, one wan and patient Jew : 
Just Judah stands for law. A spirit new 
Gives answer gracious as from heaven it rained. 

A powerful angel through a woman breathes : 
" The quality of mercy is not strained." 



36 



w 



A NOCTURNE OF RUBINSTEIN. 



HAT now remains, what now remains but night ? 
Night hopeless, since the moon is in her grave ! 



Late came a glorious light 
In one wide flood on spire and field and wave. 

It found a flowing way 
To secret places where the dead leaves lay; 

It won the half-hid stream 
To shy remembrance of her morning gleam ; 

Then on the sky's sharp shore 
Rolled back, a fading tide, and was no more. 
No more on spire and ivied window bright ! 

No more on field and wave ! 

What now remains, what now remains but night? 
Night hopeless, since the moon is in her grave / 

37 



OBERON. 
II. 

Dumb waits the dim, broad land, 
Like one who hears, yet cannot understand, 

Tidings of grief to come. 
The woods and waters, with the winds, are dumb. 

But now a breeze has found 
Sorrowful voice, and sobs along the ground: 
" Oh the lost light, the last, the best lost light ! 

No more on field and wave !" 

What now remains, what now remains but night . 
Night hopeless, since the moon is in her grave / 



III. 



Hark, how the wind outswells ! 
Tempting the wood's dark heart till he rebels, 

And, shaking his black hair, 
Lifts up a cry of passion and despair ! 

The groaning branches chafe 
Till scarce the small, hushed singing-birds are safe, 

Tossed rocking in the nest, 
Like gentle memories in a stormy breast. 

38 



OBERON. 

A shudder, as good angels passed in flight, 
Thrills over field and wave ! 

What now remains, what now remains but night? 
Night lawless, while the moon is in her grave ! 



IV. 



There falls a mighty hush : 
And forth from far recesses fern-scents rush, 

Faint as a waft from years 
Long past ; they touch in heaven the springs of tears. 

In great drops, slow and warm, 
Breaks all at once the spirit of the storm. 

What now remains, what now remains but night ? 
Night grieving, while the moon is in her grave ! 



V. 



Behold ! the rain is over : on the wave 

A new, a flashing light ! 

Lo, she arises calm, 
The pale, the patient moon, and pours like balm 

Through the wet wood's wrecked aisle 
Her own unutterably tender smile ! 

39 



OBERON. 

There is no calm like that when storm is done ; 
There is no pleasure keen as pain's release ; 
There is no joy tnat lies so deep as peace, 
No peace so deep as that by struggle won. 

Naught now remains, ?iaught now remains but flight- 
Night peaceful, with the moon on field and wave I 



AN EPITAPH WRITTEN IN THE SAND, 

ON A BUTTERFLY DROWNED IN THE SEA. 

"T)0(3R Psyche, to a Power supernal wed, 

How strong a fate on this thy frailness fell ! 
What strange ironic word shall here be read ? 
Dead sign of immortality, farewell ! 

I sigh not that the summer fields have lost 
One flying flower: who counts the butterflies? 

I sigh not that thy sunny hour was crossed 
The self-same Shadow surely waits mine eyes. 



Thy piteous terror of the appointed end, 
For this I sigh ! The billow, poised above, 

Fell on thee like the beast that leaps to rend ; 
Thou couldst not know thy bridegroom Death was 
Love ! 



OBERON. 

How otherwise thy sister, yea the Soul 

Bent brooding o'er these broken wings of thine ! — 

Through all her house of mystery once she stole 
To the inmost room, and found a Face benign. 

Now whirl her where ye must, ye waves of Law — 
Aye, tear her vans, her painted hopes, apart ! 

She cannot fear, remembering what she saw : 

Dark bridegroom Death, she knows thee Who thou 
art! 



EMELIE. 

chaste goddesse of the ivodes grene, 

1 am (thou wost) yet of thy compagnie, 
A mayde, and love hunting and vcnerie, 
And /or to walke in the ivodes ivitde. 

— Chaucer's "Knightes Tale. 

QHE greets the lily on the stalk; 

She shakes the soft hair from her brows ; 
She wavers down the garden walk 

Beneath the bloomy boughs. 
She is the slenderest of maids ; 

Her fair face strikes you like a star; 
The great stone tower her pathway shades — 
The prison where the Princes are. 
Across the dewy pleasance falls. 

All in the clear May morning light, 
The shadow of those evil walls 
That look so black by night. 

She is so glad, so wild a thing, 

Her heart sings like the lark all day ; 

The unhooded falcon on the wing 
Is not more freely gay. 

43 



OBERON. 

In sun and wind doth she rejoice, 
And blithely drinks the airy blue, 

Yet loves the solemn pines that voice 
The grief she never knew. 

In silence of the woods apart 

Her sure swift step the Dryads know; 
Full oft she speeds the bounding hart, 

And draws the bending bow. 
Fine gleams across her spirit dart, 

And never living soul, saith she, 
Could make her choose for aye to lose 

Her own sweet company. 

But sometimes, when the moon is bright, 

So bright it almost drowns the stars, 
She thinks how some have lost delight 

Behind the prison bars. 
It makes her sad a little space, 

And casts a shadow on her look, 
As branches in a woody place 

Do flicker on a brook. 

Last night she had a dream of men, 
Dark faces strange with keen desire ; 



OBERON. 

She heard the blaring trumpet then, 

She saw the shields strike fire. 
The pomp of plumes, the crack of spears, 

Beyond her happy circle lie : 
Thank Heaven ! she has but eighteen years, 
And loves the daisies and the sky. 
And yet across her garden falls, 

All in the clear May ?norning lig/n 
The shadow of the prison walls 
That look so black by night. 



I 



ELSINORE. 

T is strange in Elsinore 

Since the day King Hamlet died. 



All the hearty sports of yore, 

Sledge and skate, are laid aside; 
Stilled the ancient mirth that rang, 

Boisterous, down the fire-lit halls ; 
They forgot, at Yule, to hang 

Berried holly on the walls. 
Claudius lets the mead still flow 

For the blue-eyed thanes that love it ; 

But they bend their brows above it, 
And forever, to and fro, 
'Round the board dull murmurs go : 
" It is strange in Elsinore 
Since the day King Hamlet died.' 

And a swarm of courtiers flit, 
New in slashed and satined trim, 

With their freshly-fashioned wit 
And their littleness of limb, — 
4 6 



OBERON. 

Flit about the stairways wide, 
Till the pale Prince Hamlet smiles, 

As he walks, at twilight tide, 

Through the galleries and the aisles. 

For to him the castle seems — 

This old castle, Elsinore — 
Like a thing built up of dreams; 

And the king's a mask, no more; 
And the courtiers seem but flights 

Of the painted butterflies ; 
And the arras, wrought with fights, 

Grows alive before his eyes. 
Lo, its giant shapes of Danes, 

As without a wind it waves, 
Live more nobly than his thanes, 

Sullen carpers, ale-fed slaves ! 

In the flickering of the fires, 

Through his sleep at night there pass 
Gay conceits and young desires — 

Faces out of memory's glass, 
Fragments of the actor's art, 

Student's pleasures, college broils, 
Poesies that caught his heart, 

Chances with the fencing foils; 



OBERON. 

Then he listens oftentimes 

With his boyhood's simple glee, 
To dead Yorick's quips and rhymes, 

Leaning on his father's knee. 
To that mighty hand he clings, 

Tender love that stern face charms; 
All at once the casement rings 

As with strength of angry arms. 
From the couch he lifts his head, 

With a shudder and a start; 
All the fires are embers red, 

And a weight is on his heart. 

It is strange in Elsinore : 

Sure some marvel cometh soon ! 

Underneath the icy moon 
Footsteps pat the icy floor ; 
Voices haunt the midnights bleak, 

When the wind goes singing keen; 
And the hound, once kept so sleek, 

Slinks and whimpers and grows lean 
And the shivering sentinels, 

Timorous, on their lonesome round, 
Starting count the swinging bells, 

Starting at the hollow sound ; 
48 



OBERON. 

And the pine-trees chafe and roar, 
Though the snow would keep them still. 
In the state there's somewhat ill ; 

It is strange in Elsinore. 



40 



FIAMMETTA. 

T N dream I passed the Gate that bears in black, 
"Here lies dead Hope." The ineffable gold sky 
I saw between the pillars, looking back, 
And one young cloud, that slowly wandered by 

As though it wondered. Downward, all was dark, 
And through the dark I heard the sad souls cry. 

Anon, although alone, I whispered, " Hark ! 

What lifeless laughter, crackling thorny-thin?" 
Then grew to sight what first I failed to mark 

When from the accustomed light I entered in, — 
A group that pleasured by that barren wall 
As Hell some delicate-blossomed close had been : 

One, gesturing, spake; the rest attended all. 

" Declare, ye circled shades, your home on earth ! 
Declare the names your kindred used to call ! " 

I cried, much marveling at their mirthless mirth. 
A woman wavered to the space half lit 
By that lost sky: "In Florence had we birth; 

That company thou seest, who chose to sit 
Ten Bunny days, a fountain's flight beside, 
Scattering the rose, and weaving tales of wit, 
50 



OBERON. 

What time by Arno many cursing died. 

Yes, Fiammetta am I. Thou little flame 
(Thus the grave Angel, to this Gate my guide), 
With what vain flickering hast thou proved thy name/ 
Hast given to no chilled spirit aught of cheer ; 
Shalt now be fed and kept alight with shame, 
And flicker evermore." 

Then did appear 
Her set smile's irony, and I discerned 
Through those her long dark languid eyes, right clear 

How far below her soul forever burned. 

Her sleeves of scarlet hung in many a shred ; 
Her silver chains were all to tarnish turned. 

And crisped were the laurels on her head. 

" Alas ! why earnest thou to this place of pain, — 
Why, Pampinea, Lauretta, why ? " I said, 

' Since many souls that bore the self-same stain 
Tread the last ledge of Purgatory mount, 
And trust, made pure, sweet Paradise to gain, 

Where sings the grove, where flows the twofold fount. 
Those, angels aid on fair green rustling wings ; 
Why then are these thus held to hard account ? " 

'Not such, O questioner, was the sin that brings 
Us hither ; but on earth so weak a part 



OBERON. 

We chose, that now no part in heavenly things 

Is granted us, nor yet will Hell's deep heart 
Receive us, but in this dim borderland 
We dwell, and follow here our hollow art 

Of weaving tales, and are in semblance gay, 
Moved by a might we never may withstand. 
To our own dear delights we turned away ; 

Forgot the city full of tears, forgot 

The tolling bells, abandoned even to pray ; 
But couched in some delectable safe spot 

Saw breezy olives whiten like the sea, 

And babbled, fools, of Love, and knew him not, 
Who else had set us from the grim Gate free, 

Being giant-strong to save the souls of men. 

But Hate came to us, richly masked, and we 
Esteemed him Love ; and now among us ten 

Sits very Hate. The life we prized is ours 

For aye ! Yet not so far, I deem, this den 
From sound of suffering as our fields of flowers." 

With that weird smile, she turned as if to go. 
Loud groaned the lurid City, the sullen fen 
Of Styx, and all that grief that lies below. 
'Farewell," I sighed "Fiammetta!" But she, "Not so! 

What life is thine? Perchance we meet again!" 



HAROUN AL RASCHID. 

f~* OLDEN pride and fragrant light 
^^ Are mine, and thereto was I born; 
Throned pomp is mine of right, 
Robes bestarred, or like the morn; 
All words of pearl to me belong 
Singers can string in shining song; 
Jewels, as perfect song-notes rare, 
Are mine own to waste or wear. 

Not less hath this right hand power 
Whereof such shows are but the flower- 
Power deep-rooted in the earth 
That shakes to royal wrath or mirth. 

Yet, on many a deep-blue night, 
Clad and shod in coarsest wise, 
All my splendors must I slight 
For the smile of the common skies: 
My feet, that inlaid courts forego, 
Lanes of the dusty city know; 



OBERON. 

I jest among the bronzed slaves, 
And am well met with merry knaves, 
And quafl poor drink, and feel it glow ; 
Steep me in simple weal and woe ; 
Yea, learn to swim in those dim waves 
That, my palace flight before, 
Fawning fall with plausive roar. 

Hence rumors dear shall rise and rise 
Of my descending and disguise; 
Whereat the slave's freed soul shall sing : 
A Caliph looked into his eyes : 
How is he, then, so mean a thing? 
By torchlight of such memories 
The Caliph in himself he sees. 
Thus, being loved, shall live my name, 
Glowing in the general flame 
Of the people's hearth and heart; 
While men lie entombed apart 
That were as glorious and as great, 
Forgot, because they kept their state ; 
Crumbling with the crumbling Past 
Into a dust unnamed at last, 
Whence their gems procured shall be 
By some wiser soul like me. 



54 



A RONDEL OF PARTING. 

"VTOU leave it when spring blossoms fall, 
The old house where the roses grew. 

You gave them from the garden wall, 
Your roses, faint of breath and hue, 
Whose lovely like I never knew. 

Can I my flock of memories call 

To leave it when spring blossoms fall, 
The old house where the roses grew? 

No, no, they flit about the hall, 
And beat their wings, and cry for you. 

Be still : no more, no more at all, 
She enters now : apart we two 

Shall see in dreams, when late leaves fall, 
The House of Youth, where roses grew ! 



A CHRISTMAS GREETING. 

OPEED, my Thought, oh speed, my Thought, 

Over the miles of snow ! 
Never before, to bear to her door 

Love, with his looks aglow, 

Hadst thou so far to go ! 
Take for a chime bells of my rhyme 

Over the miles of snow ! 

Stand, my Thought, oh stand, my Thought ! 

Fled are the miles of snow. 
Call, Love ! to her window above, 

In the voice her heart must know. 

'Tis the time of mistletoe : 
Sing in the night to her window alight, 

In the night of stars and snow ! 



56 



AT EASTER-TIDE. 

A T Easter-tide, when lilies blow 
•*■ *■ For font and altar, virgin things, 
When spikes of maple scarlet show, 
And thin clouds white as angels' wings, 
While some fresh voice the message flings 
" The Lord is risen ! " — from long ago 

Rise purified the tombed Springs, 
At Easter-tide, when lilies blow. 

Oh, when the hallowed hour not brings 
Those gloried ghosts, whose brows we know, 
Nor I o'er change and distance throw, 

In midmost prayer, an arm that clings, 

Ah then, the deep-toned bell that rings 
I shall not hear, nor hear whatso 

The clear young voice triumphant sings, 
At Easter-tide, when lilies blow! 



57 



TO-DAY. 

"^ 7"OICE, with what emulous fire thou singest free hearts 

of old fashion, 

English scorners of Spain, sweeping the blue sea-way, 

Sing me the daring of life for life, the magnanimous 

passion 

Of man for man in the mean populous streets of To-day ! 

Hand, with what color and power thou couldst show, in 
the ring hot-sanded, 
Brown Bestiarius holding the lean tawn tiger at bay, 
Paint me the wrestle of Toil with the wild-beast Want, 
bare-handed ; 
Shadow me forth a soul steadily facing To-day! 



s8 



A CONSERVATIVE. 

" "\7"OUR Spring," he said, "I hate: now blast, now 
breeze ; 

All weathers mixt; sharp change, confusion dire. 

An easy-chair, a vast December fire, 
A fine old russet folio — give me these ! 
Birds' twitterings at the dawn my ear displease, 

My dreams di3turb. What eye could ever tire 

Of orderly white ways? could e'er desire 
The foolish haze of May? Such wishes tease 
No sober mind ! " 

But none the less did break 
Green from the glebe ; the coned chestnuts gave 
Faint fragrance out; the robin's breast would make 

A flame a-field ; the snow he could not save. 
And Spring on Spring, as wave in strong wave's wake, 

Still rolls a bloomy billow o'er his grave. 



.50 



A RADICAL. 

T T E never feared to pry the stable stone 

That loving lichens clad with silvery gray ; 
Torn ivies trembled as they slipped away, 
Their empty arms now loose and listless blown. 
Then turning, with that ardor all his own, 
" Behold, my better building ! " he would say. 
" I rear as well as raze : nor by decay 
Nor foe nor fire can this be overthrown ! " 

What was it ? Had he keener sight than we ? 
We saw the ruin, more we could not see ; 

His blocks were jasper air, a dream his plan. 
We called him, Stormer ; ever he replied, 
' Unbroken calm within my breast I hide. " 

Now God be judge betwixt us and this man ! 



60 



A RETROGRADE. 

'\ A/ HAT, you ! " his comrades cried, "who led us long 
' ■ Against the dense arrays of dullards' thought, 
You quit us on the march, so quickly caught 

By such a strain, a simple peasant-song? 

That breath of old brown earth is strangely strong, 
To lure you to the fields where hinds untaught 
Toil slavish, or by common coinage bought, 

Or meanly fearful of the Master's thong ! " 

' Yea, dear the song, — although I may not sing ; 

Yea, dear the soil, — although I delve it not ! 
I fall not back, but peaceful pass beyond. 

For freedom's sake your hearts are fiery-hot, 
Yet through the tramp I hear your fetters ring ! 
Denial is the straitest kind of bond. " 



THE RESOLVE. 

nTHOU intimate, malign, benumbing power 

I cannot name, since names that men have made 
For shapes of evil shine beside thy shade, 

Who from the seat of mine own soul dost lower, — 

Darkness itself, that doth the light devour, — 
I feel thine urgency upon me laid 
To voice despair ! Thou shalt not be obeyed ; 

Thou art my master only for thine hour ! 

As some sad-eyed, wan woman that is slave 

To the swart Moor, being bid her lute to bring, 

Since song of her strange land her lord doth crave, 
With lip a-tremble dares the scourge's sting, 

Refusing, — thy brute might so far I brave: 
I will not sing what thou wouldst have me sing ! 



62 



THE NOONING. 

/"^VH soft, soft, soft, thou slender-footed maid, 
^""^ Cool-clad and fair, along the sultry street 

At broad blue blinding noon ! Light fall thy feet 
As e'er the wood-nymphs' fell while Pan was laid 
At mid-day in some choice Arcadian shade 

Where not an oak-leaf laughed, and if there beat 

Loud the wild heart of any Dryad fleet, 
Hearing, she girded her warm side afraid ! 
For where, against yon hourly-growing wall, 

Dull-red, the ailantus-blossoms brighter show, 
A little while his weariness forgot, 
Outstretching in a chosen shadow small, 

With hot wet forehead on his lax arm low, 

Swart Labor sleeps, without whom thou wert not ! 



THE INHERITANCE. 

I. 

/"CONCEIVE that Perfect Man, to whom we tend, 
^-^ The great Inheritor, on some sheer cape 

Between the morn and morn-bright main : a shape 
Wherein dead racer and dead wrestler blend 
In living speed and power. Dead sages send 
Their wisdom's wine, matured like juice of grape, 
His heart to strengthen. Songs his lips escape 
That silenced lips of long-dead singers lend. 

Enough for such, such immortality ! 

Well-paid, the press of trampling cares ! the pains 
That bore the embodied joy ! the home-stretch sobs ! 

The doers passed : their best of deed remains, 
And still through many a mightier artery 

To feed a larger life their life-blood throbs. 

II. 

But those, whose useless breath was mixed with groans? 
Weak flesh, sick spirits, poor dumb dog-like eyes 
That could not read the star-signs in the skies, 

64 



OBERON. 

Now closed forever, sealed beneath their stones ! 

In this fair-colored scheme what line atones, — 
Old hopes being calmly cancelled by the wise, — 
To those that died as any dull brute dies, 

And propped the Future but with bleaching bones ? 

O Man to be, if perfect thou indeed, 

A horror thine inheritance appears, 

A Titan torture-fire thy rising day ! 
For ancient ocean's chant to thee must need 

Be all one wail of creatures cast away, 
And heaven's own rainbow-smile a thing of tears ! 



6s 



LONG SUMMER DAYS. 

T ONG summer days are my desire : 
"*- - ' Red suns, that drop as globes of fire 
Behind the sloped fields white with weed : 
Warm winds, that waft the wandering seed 
With silvery plume, now low, now higher : 
Pale clematis that o'er the brier 
Runs with frail feet that never tire 
Beside rough roads : your gifts I need, 
Long summer days ! 

Yet come not, O profane ones ! nigher, 
If in your stars be severance dire 
Of dear companionship decreed : 
For then, alas ! ye were indeed, 
Too far outstripping my desire, 
Long summer days ! 



66 



THE GOLDENROD. 



A A f HEN daisy-snow abides no more 

In fields that long for freshening rains. 
The goldenrod, the flower you wore, 
Leans out beside the lanes: 

Leans softly, with the look of one 

Who has a tender word to say ; 
Then, feeling breezes warm with sun, 

Turns unconfessed away. 

O'er lichened wall, o'er languid brook, 

By her my spirit is caressed, 
This golden girl, whom oft you took, 

Companion, to your breast: 

Who strives, with deftest maiden art, 
Your moods and manners to repeat, 

As stirred her still the gentle heart 
She felt so often beat. 

67 



OBERON. 

Forgive her, dear, for friendship's sake, 
Though all too close she feign your ways ! 

Since now the sight of her can make, 
In sad and sunless days, 

On all the world a sudden shine, 
A flood of sunlight glad and mild, 

Till song, in these still thoughts of mine, 
Breaks forth as though you smiled ! 



HEY ROBIN, JOLLY ROBIN ! 

Twelfth Night. 

T3 OBIN of the valiant air 
■*■ *■ And the ebon head, 
Proud, perhaps, that thou dost bear 
Breast so brave a red : 

Robin of the rounded throat, 

Straight of back and slim, 
Robin sending fearless note 

Through the dawn-haze dim : 

Through this haze of spring-time dawn, 

Tell me, hast thou seen, — 
From thy cool untrodden lawn, 

Shimmering silver-green, 

Where the broken blossoms lie. 

Colored like a shell, — 
Seen the maid I'd meet pass by? 

Dearest Robin, tell! 
69 



OBERON. 

How shouldst thou my true-love know 

From another one? 
By her pure cheek's welcoming glow, 
Thee to look upon ! 

By her eyes, that at thy call 
Straightway would declare 
Sister is her soul to all 
Fearless things and fair ! 

Gone, with such a dashing dart, 

Such a whistle clear? 
What canst mean ? — Ah, gallant heart, 

Bless thee ! She is here. 



70 



THE UNDERSONG. 

1 If HEN restful at the farmhouse we abode, 
* * One August mild whose memory lingers long, 
Not always did we note the happy song 
Of that brown brook that through the pastures flowed, 
Whose haunt the field-flowers tall would hide, yet showed; 
For farmstead sounds full oft would do it wrong, 
Or speech, or laughter light, or wheels along 
The shaded windings of the elmy road. 

Yet ever it flowed and sang to the warm day, 

As to a drowsy child old running rhymes, 

And ever at a pause was in the ear. 
Low-whispering where the goldenrod was gay, 

The assuring utterance of all still times. 

So is it with the voice the heart holds dear. 



THE PASSING OF THE YEAR. 

f~\ GENTLE Year, I'll not entreat thee stay, 

^~^ Since now thy face is set to some far land 
Not named of men, untrod, a shadow- strand! 

And those most powerful prayers that lips could pray 

Would not obtain thy tarrying for a day. 
Yet, gliding from us with the sliding sand, 
Thou shalt not pass till I have kissed the hand 

That gave me joys, and took but time away. 

Can Love, that of the soul's delight is born, 
Being matched in stature to the soul, increase? 
Not so : but Memory, leaning at his side, 

Waxes with every rosy draught of morn, 
And gathers to her every moon's full peace, 

And dreaming on dark seas of summer, grows deep-eyed. 



72 



A CHARMED CUP. 

A S drinking-cups whereof old rhymers tell, 
-**• In twilight ages all with wonders rife, 
Were given, by mystic herb and midnight spell, 
The gift to summon Love — to summon Life! — 

So this for thee, lest aught should come between, 
This little clasped cup, and charm of wine 

Love singing trod with feet of heavenly sheen, 
I set away : it shall be always thine. 

Thine to restore, with magic strong and strange, 
The might of meeting eyes and near, warm breath; 

That there shall be no Time nor any Change, 
Nor any room for such a thing as Death ! 



IN HUSH OF NIGHT. 

"\ \ THEN nightfall on the Dardan plain 

Brings truce, and stilled are sounds of Mars. 
And mournful, mournful moans the main, 
And Simois' ripples take the stars, — 

When thoughts of home float o'er the sea 

From fields afar, and heroes' breasts, 
At last from brazen corselet free, 

Soft-heaving take those gentle guests, — 

Ah then, who sinks to sleep away, 

In tent, or galley scarlet-prowed, 
Nor doubts some deed he did to-day? 

That taunt was harsh, that boast was loud. 

How failed his eyes to recognize 

The god behind the foeman bold? 
Why gave he, under friendship's guise, 

That mail of brass for mail of gold? 



OBERON. 

Oh, is there one, of either host, 
Who never, sighing, weighs his cause 

At this grave hour, nor feels a ghost, 
Cool-handed, bid his courage pause ? 

Two : dog-like droops the dreaming head 

Of mean Thersites evil-eyed ; 
And Paris on his broidered bed 

Sleeps well at swan-white Helen's side. 

No scruple sharp the selfist finds ; 

The wrangler no remorses fret : 
The loved of gods in lofty minds 

Have room to house a high regret. 



75 



THE WAYFARERS. 



"\ 7"0UNG man with the keen blue eyes, 
Clear and bold ! 

Why, as thou dost fare, 

With so searching air, 
Scannest thou each face thou dost behold, 
Each small flower, faint-colored like the skies, 
Growing by the way? Why gazest thou 

O'er the round hill's brow? 



Ah, in every bearded face, 
Looking deep, 

My heart's friend seek I ! 

In each maiden shy 
My heart's dearest, dreamed upon in sleep ; 
And in each fair flower a hope I trace ; 
And the hill may hide the flashing sea 

That doth call to me ! " 

7 6 



OBERON. 



II. 



Old man with the pale blue eyes, 
Mild and clear ! 

Why, as thou dost fare, 

With that pondering air 
Into passing faces dost thou peer? 
Why dost pause, where dim like autumn skies 
Starry asters grow? Why gazest thou 

O'er the round hill's brow? 

' Ah, from each gray-bearded face 
Would I know 
What that heart hath found ; 
And in youths that bound 
See a youth who vanished long ago ! 
In each flower a memory can I trace ; 
O'er the hill the green, still place may be 
That doth wait for me ! " 



AN INVOCATION IN A LIBRARY. 

S~\ BROTHERHOOD, with bay-crowned brows un- 
^~"^ daunted, 

Who passed serene along our crowded ways, 
Speak with us still ! For we like Saul are haunted : 

Harp sullen spirits from these later days ! 

Whate'er high hope ye had for man your brother, 
Breathe it, nor leave him like a prisoned slave 

To stare through bars upon a sight no other 
Than clouded skies that lighten on a grave. 

In these still alcoves give us gentle meeting, 
From dusky shelves kind arms about us fold, 

Till the New Age shall feel her chilled heart beating 
Restfully on the warm heart of the Old. 

Till we shall hear your voices mild and winning 
Steal through our doubt and discord, as outswells 

At fiercest noon, above a city's dinning, 
The chiming music of cathedral bells : 
78 



OBERON. 

Music that lifts the thought from trodden places 
And coarse confusions that around us lie, 

Up to the calm of high cloud-silvered spaces, 

Where the tall spire points through the soundless sky. 



79 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 



"TT IGH as my heart!" Orlando answered thus, 
In careless Arden, Arden green to-day, 
Parrying with gallant wit the question gay 
Touching his lady's stature. When of us 
Lips yet to be, in years lying yet before, 
Make question of the stature of thy fame, 
The words that we shall answer are the same : 
High as our hearts he stood. 

What man would more? 

Wide-sunned with love thy last late winter days, 

Whose blue mild morns were memories of the spring. 
To thee spring voices had not ceased to sing, 
Nor ever closed to thee fresh woodland ways 
Where underneath old leaves the violets are, 
And, shy as boyhood's dream, spring beauties like a star. 



OBERON. 



II. 



Thou wast not robbed of wonder when youth fled, 
But still the bud had promise to thine eyes, 
And beauty was not sundered from surprise. 

And reverent, as reverend, was thy head. 

Thy life was music, and thou mad'st it ours. 

Not thine, crude scorn of gentle household things ; 
And yet thy spirit had the sea-bird's wings, 

Nor rested long among the chestnut-flowers. 

Spain's coast of charm, and all the North Sea's cold 
Thou knewest, and thou knewest the soul of eld, 
And dusty scroll and volume we beheld 

To gold transmuted — not to hard-wrought gold, 

But that clear shining of the eastern air, 

When Helios rising shakes the splendor of his hair. 



Si 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 

— With that Sir Gawain departed, joyful and sorrow- 
ful : joyful because of what Merlin had assured him 
should happen to him ; and sorrowful, that Merlin had 
thus been lost. 

Morte d'Arthur. 

r PHOU Merlin, shut in the still wood of Death, 
Yet living ! who through forest-calm dost roll 

A voice of guidance to the venturous soul 
As when thou hadst the common blood and breath : 
Far for thy praise my Fancy wandereth 

Through all wide lands, and fain would spoil the whole 

To heap crown-jewels at thine oak-tree's bole. 
" Seek no bright words ! " a wiser spirit saith. 
" Not such the sage can please : no seeker he ! 

The world came to him in his tower, and told 
Secrets of might, unforced and loving-free ; 

Nor held he Fancy's choice true gems and gold. 
Kneel but and say: 

One grateful here behold! 
Of mine own treasure thou didst give the key!" 



?,? 



ON FIRST READING LANDOR'S HELLENICS. 

^p\VO sauntering, hand in hand, one happy day, 
Along a pleasant path that neither knew, 

Came, glad and startled, on the sudden blue, 
With sails unclouded, of a sunny bay, 
And hollowing toward the wave a meadow, gray 

With honey-giving growths thick-spread as dew. 

There goatskin-girt, with limbs like bronze in hue, 
Free-bathed in sun and wind, a shepherd lay, 

Asleep, his reed pipe fallen by his knee; 

And late, it seemed, a song had left his lips. 

We heard but lapping ripple, prattling bee 
Above the thyme's dim-purple, downy tips; 

Beyond, once beat by oars of beaked ships, 

Far outward swept the calm, the storied sea. 



BACH'S ST. MATTHEW PASSION MUSIC. 

TTARK! on this wind eternal Voices ride. 

Oh, hark ! out of the deep mysterious East 

The Voices of Disciple and High-Priest, 
Betrayer, and Denier, and Denied : 
Strong prayers at midnight by a streamlet-side, 

And broken sayings at a solemn feast; 

A sea-like sound : " Barabbas be released ! " 
A fiercer wave: "Let Him be crucified!" 

And now arise new voices blent with these, 
In sober chorals, linked like the beads 
Of some brown chaplet ; breathing pieties 

Of faithful souls that sifted not the creeds. 

The names of those that sang the loiterer reads 
In God's green acre, spired with poplar-trees. 



8 4 



SALVINI'S OTHELLO. 

"XT OT most the crouching spring, the forest-roar, 
The lion-pace, the lion-power express ; 

By such strong signs as these he conquers less 
Than in that pulse-beat's time, when, wounded sore, 
He gathers all himself, and stands once more 

Unshaken in his sombre kingliness, 

Too great the deadly keenness to confess 
Of traitor steel sent clean to the heart's core: 
Sighs Iago, bent in soothing half-embrace, 
"A little this hath dashed your mood, I wot!" 
Then, majesty at full in eyes and face, 

Large soul to the lower's level stooping not, 
Dark head thrown back, with that grand Southern grace 

He waves his eloquent hands — "Nay, not a jot!" 



35 



ELLEN TERRY'S BEATRICE. 

A WIND of spring that whirls the feigned snows 
Of blossom-petals in the face, and flees : 

Elusive, made of mirthful mockeries, 
Yet tender with the prescience of the rose ; 
A strain desired, that through the memory goes, 

Too subtle-slender for the voice to seize ; 

A flame dissembled, only lit to tease, 
Whose touch were half a kiss, if one but knows. 

She shows by Leonato's dove-like daughter 
A falcon, by a prince to be possessed, 

Gay-graced with bells that ever chiming are; 
In azure of the bright Sicilian water, 
A billow that has rapt into its breast 

The swayed reflection of a dancing star ! 



86 



SONGS OF A SEMITE." 



A RMED soul that ridest through a land of peace, 

Her borders filled with finest of the wheat, 
Her children reaping, where with weary feet 

Sad sowers trod who taste not the increase: 

We hear thy trump, whose echo shall not cease, 
In hush of night resounding, while we meet 
Around unthreatened fires, but pressing fleet 

Thou passest, proud, to claim thy kin's release ; 

Thy trump, that doth arraign the entombed Past, 
Till shapes that march as if with martyr-psalm 
In glow and gloom of kindly hearths we see : 

And now to present war a keener blast 

Calls loud, and spirits late content and calm 
Spring up enforced, and spur to follow thee ! 

II. 

To war? What words are mine, that do thee wrong! 
Whose suit is powerful Peace, resplendent-shod, 
Fair on the mountains ; who wouldst set the rod 
87 



OBERON. 

Borne as a staff o'er stony ways and long 
Yet withered not, to strike new root and strong 
Deep in its nursing earth. Oh, there the clod 
Were virtue, and the sun the smile of God, 
And buds should break to bloom, as maids to song ! 

Aye, would for thee that, — even as the dove 

Whose silver wings have o'er waste places passed, 
When in the lonely west the evening burns, 

Her unforgetful breast a-throb with love, 

To her own pillared porch of flight returns, — 
On the old hills might Israel rest at last ! 



ON READING THE POEMS OF EDITH 
THOMAS. 

Then will I, tasting, say — 

This is arbutus' gift, 
Reached from the leafy drift 
On a glistening April day. 

Wild Honey. 

A RBUTUS' gift, in very truth, I deem 

These gathered, golden songs that keep the gleam 
Of early sunlight through the awakened wood; 
The vernal spirits of the sisterhood 
There cloistered, rosy-cool and vestal- shy, 
Are in these lucent cells enforced to lie ; 
Here bides the baffling fragrance, here the charm. 
Henceforth I fear not frosty Hiems' harm, 
Though all his bluff besiegers he should bring; 
Behold, my bookshelf lodges Ver, the Spring! 



so 



POSIES. 

— Is this . . . the posy of a ring? 

Hamlet. 

I. 

FRIENDSHIP. 

T WERE not worth you, could I long for you; 
■*■ But should you come, you would find me ready. 

The lamp is lighted, the flame is steady: 
Over the strait I toss this song for you ! 

II. 
A ROSE. 

npOO-PERFECT Rose, thy heavy breath has power 

To wake a dim, an unexplained regret : 
Art body to the soul of some deep hour 
That all my seasons have not yielded yet? 

But if it be so — Hour, too-perfect Hour, 

Ah, blow not full, though all the yearning days 

Should tremble bud-like, since the wind must shower 
Thine unreturning grace along the ways ! 
9 o 



OBERON. 

III. 

WISTARIA. 

— lumenque juventcz 
Purpureum — 

S~\ SMILE of spring, that o'er the worn gray brow 
^-^ Of some old many-memoried house dost run, 
The very light of purple Youth art thou 
The laughing goddess shed upon her son! 

IV. 

ON A FLY-LEAF. 

' T T is the nightingale, and not the lark ! " 

O poet-heart, enamored of the Past, 
That Romeo with the ruby in his ear! 
No longer sicken to detain the dark: 

Thine eyes along the clear horizon cast: 
Behold, a fresh imperious dawn is here! 



AN IVORY MINIATURE. 

\~\ T HEN State Street homes were stately still; 
When out of town was Murray Hill; 

In late-deceased " old times " 
Of vast, embowering bonnet-shapes, 
And creamy-crinkled Canton crapes, 

And florid annual-rhymes, 

He owned a small suburban seat 
Where now you see a modern street, 

A monochrome of brown; 
The sad "brown-brown" of Dante's dreams, 
A twilight turned to stone, that seems 

To weight our city down. 

Through leafy chestnuts whitely showed 
The pillared front of his abode: 

A garden girt it 'round, 
Where pungent box did trim enclose 
The marigold and cabbage-rose, 

And "pi'ny" heavy-crowned. 



OBERON. 

Yea, whatso sweets, the changing year's, 
He most affected. Gone : but here's 

His face who loved them so. 
Old eyes like sherry, warm and mild; 
A cheek clear-hued as cheek of child; 

Sleek head, a sphere of snow. 

His mouth was pious, and his nose 
Patrician; with which mould there goes 

A disaffected view. 
In those sublime, be-oratored, 
Spread-eagle days, his soul deplored 

So much red-white-and-blue ! 

In umber ink, with S's long, 

He left behind him censure strong 

In stiffest phrases clothed; 
But Time — a pleasant jest enough ! — 
Has turned the tory leaves to buff, 

The liberal hue he loathed. 

Of many a gentle deed he made 
Brief simple record. Never fade 

Those everlasting-flowers 
That spring up wild by good men's walks; 
Opinions wither on their stalks, 

And sere grow Fashion's bowers. 



OBERON. 

Erect, be-frilled, in neckcloth tall, 
His semblance sits, removed from all 

Our needs and noises new; 
Released from all the rent we pay 
As tenants of the large To-day, 

Cool, in a background blue. 

And he, beneath a cherub chipped, 
Plump, squamous-pinioned, pouting-lipped, 

Sleeps calm where Trinity 
Points finger dark to clouds that fleet; 
A warning, seen from surging street, 

A welcome, seen from sea. 

There fall, ghosts glorified of tears 
Shed for the dead in buried years, 

The silver notes of chimes; 
And there, with not unreverent hand 
Though light, I lay this "greene garland,' 

This woven wreath of rhymes. 



94 



V 
TO MY GOLDFISH. 

S~\ MY gorgeous-mailed knight, 
^- > ^ Whom a finger-tip can fright ! 
At my touch upstarting shy, 
With a silvery-rolling eye, 
Leaping, winding, sudden splashing, 
This way dashing, that way flashing ! 
I'll not harm thee ; lie thou still ; 
Heave not fin nor glittering gill; 
Globe-kept captive, thou shalt find 
Fellow-feeling makes me kind. 

I, too, own a hermit's heart, 
Swift at aught unknown to start: 
And I, too, am walled about, 
Though the sunbeams find me out. 
Scarce I see the stirring world 
More than thou the brook breeze-curled, 
But must make, like thee, delight 
From a few small pebbles white; 
Trifles, that may fancy bear 
To some rippled pleasance rare. 

95 



OBERON. 

Let thy thought, free-swimming, make 
This, thy globe, a spring-fed lake, 
And with water crystal-bright 
I'll refresh it morn and night, 
That such dreams the easier be: 
Deal, sweet Fates ! as well by me. 



9 6 



"AS THE CROW FLIES." 

OUCCANEER with blackest sails, 
Steering home by compass true, 
Now that all the rich West pales 
From its ingot-hue ! 

Would that compass in thy breast 
Thou couldst lend, for guiding me 

Where my Hope hath made her nest — 
In how far a tree ! 

Swerving not, nor stooping low, 
To that dear, that distant mark 

Could I undiverted go, 
What were coming dark? 

— Careless of the twilight ground, 
O'er the wood and o'er the stream 

Still he sails, with hollow sound 
Strange, as in a dream ! 



SPRIGS O' HEATHER. 



TO COMIN' YEARS. 

T TERE'S awa' wi' bairnies' fears! 

Here's a health to comin' years ! 
They maun bring me smiles wi' tears; 

Smiles are wisdom's wealth. 
Sae I'll sing it in their ears : 
" I'm na scared o' ye, my dears ! 
To ye canty comin' years 
Here's a hearty health ! 

" Just a line o' lasses ye, 
Steppin' shy, but blinkin' slee ; 
There's a spark in ilk sweet e'e 

To my soul declares 
Frowns o' yours are light to dree ; 
Ilka lip so bright o' blee 
Keeps in guard a kiss to gie 

To the lad that dares ! " 



OBERON. 

II. 

WONDERFU' SLEE. 

r~\ JAMIE MacPHERSON! Ye're sic a slee person! 
^^ I kenned ye for keen ever sin' we were wee ; 
Ye hae stown my ain mither, hae stown my ain brither, 
Hae stown my ain sister awa' frae me ! 

At kirk door they see'd ye — sic follies, I rede ye, 
Are na for the likes o' that Sabbath-day place ; 

Ye leukit at me wi' the tear in your e'e, 

And ye staw them awa' wi' your lang droopit face. 

Sic knittin' o' brows, mon, sic shakin' o' pows, mon, 
Sic praisin' of ye, mon, for douce and genteel ! 

Mither canna get sleep for the thocht o* your sheep, 
Nor Meg for the thocht o' the dool ye maun feel. 

E'en dumb dozin' Collie has heard o' my folly, 
And leuks at me sidelang whenever I pass, 

His e'e sadly blinkin', and sighs while down-sinkin', 
As though he were thinkin', " Puir daft feckless lass ! " 

Naught for it but roamin' late into the gloamin' 
(Sin' now it's na canty beside the hearthstane), 



OBERON. 

When the pale primsie moon she is walkin' aboon, 
But nae lass below her gaes roamin' alane ! 

A lad I hae seen, he has witchin' black e'en — 
O Jamie MacPherson, ye're wonderfu' slee ! 

Ye hae stown my ain mither, hae stown my ain brither, 
But Robin has stown my ain heart frae me! 

III. 

MY AIN, AIN LASS. 

I" 'M fain for toys o' Fortune whyles ; 

I hae no hate for ranks and styles ; 
But lairdship o' the braw blue isles 

I'd e'en let pass 
For ane o' her fine tremblin' smiles — 

My ain, ain lass ! 

I aiblins dream on days to be, 
An' feel my heart leap out a wee ; 
But friendly Fate can grant nae fee 

Could e'er surpass 
Her e'en, sae dark wi' luve to me — 

My ain, ain lass ! 



OBERON. 

Whyles, gray and ghaistly, by me stand 
Auld memories in an eerie band ; 
•But swift as prints on slidin' sand 

Sic phantoms pass, 
If sae I haud her warm, warm hand, 

My ain, ain lass ! 

The past she sweetens through and through, 
An', far as heaven, the future too ; 
For, surely, as her dear soul's due, 

They'll let me pass ! 
Wi'out me there what wad she do, 

My ain, ain lass ? 



EVENING PRIMROSES. 

"W THILE gray was the summer evening, 

Hast never a small sprite seen 
Lighting the fragrant torches 

For the feast of the Fairy Queen? 

The buds on the primrose-bushes 

Upspring into yellow light 
But ever the wee deft spirit 

Escapes my bewildered sight. 

Yet oft, through the dusky garden, 

A dainty white moth will fly, 
Or, pink as a pink rose-petal, 

One lightly will waver by. 

Perhaps 'tis the shape he comes in, 

Perhaps it is he indeed, 
Sir Moth, or the merry Cobweo, 

Or the whimsical Mustard-seed ! 



A HUMMING-BIRD. 

npWELVE daughters of the Trumpet-vine 
Spread wide their scarlet silks to-day. 
Sir Summer Breeze, my gossip fine, 
Can you the reason say? 

Oh listen while I whisper low ! 

The Honeysuckle told the Bee, 
{Her girls wore out their gowns, you know !) 

And Master Buzz told me. 

'Twas done for Some One's sake, I ween, 
Who by and by will hither float, 

All gay in gold and emerald green, 
With rubies round his throat ! 

' You doubt me ? Hearken ! There he went, 

The flashing Prince of Idle Hours, 
Whose silvery sing-song compliment 
Delights the flattered flowers ! " 



CHILD SONGS. 



WOOL-GATHERING. 

W THERE are my Five Wits gone, 

And will they come back soon ? ' 
They're gone a-gathering wool 
In the Valleys of the Moon. 

There the little Dream-Sheep, 
That look like mounds of snow, 

Thiough the green, green meadows 
Go grazing to and fro. 

Thither have I sent them, 

Those Five Wits of mine, 
Two with bags, and two with crooks, 

And one with shears that shine. 

They catch the little Dream-Sheep 

And cut their fleece away, 
All to weave a story from 

Upon another day ! 



OBERON. 

II. 

THE LAND WITHOUT A NAME. 

"\ 17" HERE the Sun sails bold on the Sea of Gold 

Past the Violet Islands fair, 
And the ragged shapes of the Rosy Capes 

And the Castles of the Air, 
Can you call aright all that country bright 

That is washed by waves like flame? 
'Tis the coast admired, 'tis the clime desired — 

'Tis the Land Without a Name ! 

And the way to go, since you fain would know, 

Is to charter the Crescent Ship, 
All of silver pale, with a cobweb sail, 

And merrily does she dip ! 
There's a crew of Hopes at her filmy ropes, 

And on board that ship of fame 
Many a longing Dream seeks the shores agleam 

Of the Land Without a Name! 



OBERON. 

III. 

A LULLABY. 

"NT OW while rest the happy herds, 
And in folds the fleecy sheep, 
All the boughs are full of birds, 
Crowding, sound asleep. 

Sleep, sleep, sleep, 
Under the fair, fair flocks of stars 
That roam all night and know no bars, 
Sleep, sweet, sleep! 

Now if we an Owl could ride, — 

Yes, an Owl with yellow eyes, 
Globy lanterns, clear and wide, 

Flaming while he flies, — 

We should see the pretty things, 

Pretty little sleepy souls ! 
All their heads beneath their wings, 
Blind with sleep as moles ! 

Sleep, sleep, sleep, 
Under the wild, winged winds that fly 
All night long across the sky, 
Sleep, sweet, sleep! 

106 



PUCK. 



PUCK. 

A SK not my master, Oberon, why still 

He keeps among his train this freakish sprite : 
For sooth to say, the elf intends no ill ; 

He never changed a word with Goblin Spite, 
Else Oberon had banished him outright. 
Not his to flee at cock-crow ; he was born 
Of blameless Mirth, and looks upon the morn. 
' Good-fellow, and sweet Puck," some folk do name him ; 
I pray you of your kindness not to blame him! 

— Lo, while I would bespeak you, here he rides! 

A columbine he bears upon his head 
For jester's cap, and for a steed he guides 

A mocking catbird with a spider's thread. 



log 



NARCISSUS IN CAMDEN. 

A CLASSICAL DIALOGUE OF THE YEAR 1882. 

{"In the course of his lecture Mr. retnarked that 

the most impressive room he had yet entered in America 

was the one in Camden town where he met . // 

contained plenty of fresh air and sunlight. . . . On the 
table was a simple cruse of water." . . .) 

PAUMANOKIDES. NARCISSUS. 
PAUMANOKIDES. 

Who may this be ? 

This young man clad unusually, with loose locks, lan- 
guorous, glidingly toward me advancing, 

Toward the ceiling of my chamber his orbic and expres- 
sive eye-balls uprolling, 

As I have seen the green-necked wild-fowl the mallard 
in the thundering of the storm, 

By the weedy shore of Paumanok my fish-shaped island. 

Sit down, young man ! 

I do not know you, but I love you with burning intensity, 



PUCK. 

I am he that loves the young men, whosoever and where- 
soever they are or may be hereafter, or may have 
been any time in the past, 

Loves the eye-glassed literat, loves also and probably 
more the vender of clams, raucous-throated, monot- 
onous-chanting, 

Loves the Elevated Railroad employee of Mannahatta, 
my city ; 

I suppress the rest of the list of the persons I love, 
solely because I love you, 

Sit down tibve, I receive you ! 

Narcissus. 

O clarion, from whose brazen throat 

Strange sounds across the seas are blown, 
Where England, girt as with a moat, 
A strong sea-lion, sits alone ! 

A pilgrim from that white-cliffed shore, 
What joy, large flower of Western land, 

To seek thy democratic door, 

With eager hand to clasp thy hand ! 

Paumanokides. 
Right you are ! 
Take then the electric pressure of these fingers, O my 
Comrade ! 



PUCK. 

I do not doubt you are the one I was waiting for, as I 

loaf'd here enjoying my soul, 
Let us two under all and any circumstances stick together 

from this out ! 

Narcissus. 

Seeing that isle of which I spake but late 

By ignorant demagogues is held in fee, 

The grand Greek limbs of young Democracy 
Beckoned me thence to this ideal State, 
Where maiden fields of life Hellenic wait 

For one who in clear culture walks apart 

(Avoiding all rude clamors of the mart 
That mar his calm) to sow the seeds of great 

Growths yet to be — the love of sacred Art, 
And Beauty, of this breast queen consecrate, 
Whose throne mean Science seeks to violate ; 

The flawless artist's lunacy serene, 
His purely passionate and perfect hate 

And noble scorn of all things Philistine. 

Paumanokides. 

Hold up there, Camerado ! 

Beauty is all very good as far as it goes, and Art the 
perpetuator of Beauty is all very good as far as it 
goes, but you can tell your folks, 



PUCK. 

Your folks in London, or in Dublin, or in Rome, or 
where the Arno flows, or where Seine flows, 

Your folks in the picture-galleries, admiring the Raphaels, 
the Tintorettos, the Rubenses, Vandykes, Correg- 
gios, Murillos, Angelicos of the world, 

( I know them all, they have effused to me, I have wrung 
them out, I have abandoned them, I have got be- 
yond them,) — 

NARCISSUS {aside, with tenderness). 

Ah, Burne-Jones ! 

Paumanokides. 

Tell them that I am considerably more than Beauty ! 

I, representing the bone and muscle and cartilage and 
adipose tissue and pluck of the Sierras, of Califor- 
nia, of the double Carolinas, of the Granite State, 
and the Narragansett Bay State, and the Wooden 
Nutmeg State ! 

I, screaming with the scream of the bald-headed bird 
the eagle in the primitive woods of America my 
country, in the hundred and sixth year of these 
States ! 

Dear son, I have learned the secret of the Universe, 
I learned it from my original bonne, the white-capped 
ocean, 

"3 



PUCK. 

I learned it from the Ninth-month Equinoctial, from the 
redwood tree, and the Civil War, and the hermit- 
thrush, and the telephone, and the Corliss engine, 

The secret of the Universe is not Beauty, dear son, nor 
is it Art the perpetuator of Beauty, 

The secret of the Universe is to admire one's self. 

Camerado, you hear me ! 

Narcissus. 
Ah, I too loitering on an eve of June 

Where one wan Narciss leaned above a pool, 
While overhead Queen Dian rose too soon, 
And through the Tyrian clematis the cool 
Night airs came wandering wearily, I too, 
Beholding that pale flower, beheld Life's key at last, and 
knew 

That love of one's fair self were but indeed 
Just worship of pure Beauty ; and I gave 

One sweet, sad sigh, then bade my fond eyes feed 
Upon the mirrored treasure of the wave, 

Like that lithe beauteous boy in Tempe's vale, 

Whom hapless Echo loved — thou know'st the Heliconian 
tale! 

And while heaven's harmony in lake and gold 
Changed to a faint nocturne of silvern-gray, 



PUCK. 

Like rising sea-mists from my spirit rolled 
The grievous vapors of this Age of Clay, 
Beholding Beauty's re-arisen shrine, 
And the white glory of this precious loveliness of mine ! 



Paumanokides. 

I catch on, my Comrade ! 

— You allow that your aim is similar to mine, after all 
is said and done. 

Well, there is not much similarity of style, and I recom- 
mend my style to you. 

Go gaze upon the native rock-piles of Mannahatta, my 
city, 

Formless, reckless, 

Marked with the emerald miracle of moss, tufted with the 
unutterable wonder of the exquisite green grass, 

Giving pasture to the spry and fearless-footed quad- 
ruped the goat, 

Also patched by the heaven-ambitious citizens with the 
yellow handbill, the advertisement of patent soaps, 
the glaring and vari-colored circus poster : 

Mine, too, for reasons, such arrays; 

Such my unfettered verse, scorning the delicatesse of 
dilettantes. 

Try it, I'll stake you my ultimate dollar you'll like it. 

"5 



PUCK. 

NARCISSUS {gracefully waiving the point). 

Haply in the far, the orient future, in the dawn we 

herald like the birds, 
Men shall read the legend of our meeting, linger o'er 

the music of our words ; 

Haply coming poets shall compare me then to Milton 

in his lovely youth, 
Sitting in the cell of Galileo, learning at his elder's lips 

the truth. 

Haply they shall liken these dear moments, safely held 
in History's amber clear, 

Unto Dante's converse bland with Virgil, on the mar- 
gin of that gloomy mere ! 

Paumanokides. 

Do not be deceived, dear son ; 

Amid the choruses of the morn of progress, roaring, 

hilarious, those names will be heard no longer. 
Galileo was admirable once, Milton was admirable, 
Dante the 7-talian was a cute man in his way, 
But he was not the maker of poems, the Answerer ! 
I Paumanokides am the maker of poems, the Answerer, 
And I calculate to chant as long as the earth revolves, 
To an interminable audience of haughty, effusive, copi- 
ous, gritty, and chipper Americanos ! 

116 



PUCK. 

Narcissus. 

What more is left to say or do? 

Our minds have met ; our hands must part. 
I go to plant in pastures new 
The love of Beauty and of Art. 

I'll shortly start. 
One town is rather small for two 
Like me and you! 

Paumanokides. 
So long ! 



THE SONG OF SIR PALAMEDE 

" Came Palamede, upon a secret quest, 
To high Tintagel, and abode as guest 
In likeness of a minstrel with the king. 
A T or was there man could sound so sweet a string. 

****** 
To that strange minstrel strongly swore King Mark, 
By all that makes a knight's faith firm and strong. 
That he, as guerdon of his harp and song, 
Might crave and have his liking. 

* * * ' King, I crave 

No gift of man that king may give to slave, 
But this thy crowned queen only, this thy wife! " 

Swinburne. Tristram of Lyonesse. 

"\^7"ITH flow exhaustless of alliterate words, 

And rhymes that mate in music glad as birds 
That feel the spring's sweet life among light leaves 
That ardent breath of amorous May upheaves 
And kindles fluctuant to an emerald fire 
Bright as the imperious seas that all men's souls desire: 



PUCK. 

With long strong swell of alexandrine lines, 

And with passion of anapaests, like winds in pines 

That moan and mutter in great gusts suddenly, 

With whirl of wild wet wings of storms set free : 

In mirth of might and very joy to sing, 

Uplifting voice untired, I sound one sole sweet string. 

Love, that is ever bitter as salt blown spray, 
Yet sweet, yea sweet as wrath or wine alway, 
As red warm mouths of Msenads subtly sweet; 
Love, that is fleeter than the wind's fleet feet 
Soft-shod with snowflakes; love, that hath the name 
And fury and force of swift bright shuddering flame : 
Fate, that is foe to love and lovely life, 
Yea foe implacable, and hath death to wife ; 
Fate, that is bitterer than the salt spray blown 
And colder than soft snow yet hard as stone ; 
Fate, that makes daily fare of heart's desire, 
Being found thereunto a devouring fire : 
Death, that is friend to fate and fair love's foe; 
Death, that makes waste the wolds of life with snow; 
Death, harsh as spray of seas that wild winds blow: 
Life, that is strangely one of all these three, 
Being bitter as is the sharp salt spray of sea, 
And thereto colder than the blown white rose 
And soft brief blossom of unmothered snows, 



PUCK. 

And fiercer than the forceful feathered fire, 

Fed as a flame with hope of heart and high desire: 

All these I sing, and sound the same sweet string. 



And as fresh-gathered leaves of bay I bring 

Green praises to all dear dead lute-players, 

Whom Pluto's passionate queen holds fast as hers, 

Yea all sad souls that have smiled and sinned and sung, 

With whose gold-colored hairs and hoar this harp is strung. 

And blame of the high great gods that do amiss, 

Being cruel and crowned and bathed complete in bliss, 

And careless if this world be out of tune, 

And deaf to dithyrambs of bards that bay the moon: 

And all perfections of all those I love, 

Each bettering still the best and still above 

The last this violent voice proclaimed the best, 

And blown by stormy breath still starward o'er the rest ; 

And all large loathsomeness of all I hate, 

Whose poisonous presence doth Cai'na wait, 

And better it were that they had ne'er been born, 

I being dowered with hate of hate and scorn of scorn, 

And shrinking not to name them newts and snakes, 

Lepers and toads and frogs and hooting owls and crakes: 

All these with ease of measureless might I sing, 

And sound, though sheer stark mad, the same sweet string. 



PUCK. 

And many a theme I choose in wayfaring, 

As one who passing plucks the sunflower 

And ponders on her looks for love of her. 

Yea, her flower-named whose fate was. like a flower, 

Being bright and brief and broken in an hour 

And whirled of winds : and her whose lawless hand 

Held flickering flame to fawn against the brand, 

Till Meleager splendid as the sun 

Shrank to a star and set, and all her day was done: 

And her who lent her slight white virgin light 

For death to dim, that Athens' mastering might 

Above all seas should shine, supernal sphere of night: 

And her who kept the high knight amorous 

Pent in her hollow hill-house marvelous, 

And flame of flowers brake beauteous where she trod, 

Her who hath wine and honey and a rod, 

And crowneth man a king, and maketh man a slave, 

Her who rose rose-red from the rose-white wave : 

And her who ruled with sword-blue blade-bright eyes 

The helpless hearts of men in queenly wise, 

And all were bowed and broken as on a wheel, 

Yet no soft love-cloud long could sheath that stainless steel, 

Her tiger-hearted and false and glorious, 

With flower-sweet throat and float of warm hair odorous; 

These sing I, and whatso else that burns and glows, 

And is as fire and foam-flowers and the rose 



PUCK. 

And sun and stars and wan warm moon and snows. 
Who hath said that I have not made my song to shine 
With such bright words as seal a song to be divine? 
Who hath said that I have not sweetness thereon spread 
As gold of peerless honey is poured on bread? 
Who hath said that I make not all men's brains to ring, 
And swim with imminent madness while I sing, 
And fall as feeble dykes before strong tides of spring? 
And now as guerdon of my great song I claim 
The swan-white pearl of singers, yea Queen Fame, 
Who shall be wed no more to languid lips and tame, 
But clasp me and kiss and call me by my name, 
And be all my days about me as a flame, 
Though sane vain lame tame cranes sans shame make 
game and blame! 



A MERRY JEST OF A MODERN MAID. 

TV VTISS Pallas Eudora Van Blurky, 

She didn't know chicken from turkey; 
High-Spanish and Greek she could fluently speak, 
But her knowledge of poultry was murky ! 

She could tell the great-uncle of Moses, 

And the dates of the Wars of the Roses, 

And the reasons of things — why the Indians wore rings 

In their red aboriginal noses ; 

Why Shakspere was wrong in his grammar, 
And the meaning of Emerson's Brahma, 
And she went chipping rocks with a little black box 
And a small geological hammer. 

She had views upon co-education, 
And the principal needs of the nation, 
And her glasses were blue, and the number she knew 
Of the stars in each bright constellation. 
123 



PUCK. 

And she wrote with a handwriting clerky, 

And she talked with an emphasis jerky, 

And she painted on tiles in the sweetest of styles, 

But she didn't know chicken from turkey! 



124 



THE RHYME OF THE HERCULES CLUB. 

BEING A BALLAD OF TO-DAY, DESIGNED TO ILLUSTRATE 

THE PRINCIPLE OF REACTION, AND TO SET FORTH 

HOW THERE MAY BE TOO MUCH OF AN 

EXCELLENT THING. 

' I "HERE was once a young man of the medium size, 

Who, by keeping a ledger, himself kept likewise. 
In the matter of lunch he'd a leaning to pies, 
And his chronic dyspepsia will hence not surprise; 
And his friends often told him, with tears in their eyes, 
Which they did not disguise, that a person who tries 
To live without exercise generally dies, 
And declared, for the sake of his family ties, 
He should enter the Hercules Club. 

Tom Box and Dick Dumbell would suasively say, 
If they met him by chance in the roar of Broadway, 
"It's bad for a fellow, all work and no play; 
Come, let us propose you ! You'll find it will pay 
To belong to the Hercules Club ! " 

125 



PUCK. 

And he yielded at last, and they put up his name, 
Which was found without blame; and they put down the 

same 
In a roll-book tremendous; and straight he became 
A Samson, regarding his tame past with shame ; 
Called for " Beef, lean and rare ! " and cut off all his hair, 
Had his shoulders constructed abnormally square, 
And walked out with an air that made people declare, 
"He belongs to the Hercules Club ! " 

And he often remarked, in original way : 
"It's bad for a fellow, all work and no play; 
Without recreation, sir, life doesn't pay! 
And I for my part am most happy to say 
I belong to the Hercules Club." 

And frequently during a very hot "spell," 
In thick woolen garments clad closely and well, 
" Reducing," — for he was resolved to excel, — 
He rowed in the sun at full speed, in a shell 
That belonged to the Hercules Club. 

And for weeks, while the dew on the racing-track lay, 
He ran before breakfast a half mile a day, 
Improving his style and increasing his "stay"; 
And was first at the finish, and fainted away, 
At the games of the Hercules Club. 
126 



PUCK. 

Six nights in succession he sat up to pore 
" The Laws of Athletics " devotedly o'er 
(Which number ten thousand and seventy- four), 
With a view to proposing a very few more 
In a speech to the Hercules Club. 



And his coat upon festal occasions was gay 
With medals on medals, marked "H. A. A. A.,"* 
With a motto in Greek (which, my lore to display, 
Means " Pleasure is business "), a splendid array 
Of the spoils of the Hercules Club. 



But acquaintances not of the muscular kind 
Began to observe that his brow was deep-lined, 
Too brilliant his eye, and to wander inclined; 
He appeared, in a word (early English), "fore-pined"; 
And one morning his ledger and desk he resigned, 
Explaining, " I can't have my health undermined 
By this 'demnition grind'; and I'm getting behind 
In my duties as Captain " (an office defined, 
Page hundred and two, in the by-laws that bind 
With red tape the great Hercules Club). 

* " H. A. A. A." : Hercules Amateur Athletic Association. 
127 



PUCK. 

And he further remarked, in most serious way: 
"Give it up, did you say? 'Twill be frigid, that daylf 
Why, without relaxation, sir, life wouldn't pay! 
And I, for my part, will remain till I'm gray 
On the roll of the Hercules Club ! " 

You perceive, gentle reader, the rub. 
Is it nobler to suffer those arrows and slings 
Lack of exercise brings — or take clubs, and let things 
Unconnected with matters athletic take wings; 
Till all interests beside, like the Arabs, shall glide 
From the landscape of life, once a plain free and wide, 
But now fenced for the " Games " which we lightly began, 
Grown our serious aims and the chief end of Man? 
There's an aureate mean these two courses between, 
But I humbly submit that it seldom is seen, 
With all proper respect for that organization, 
Of benevolent purpose and high reputation, 

The excellent Hercules Club! 

t Frigid day, or day of low temperature : A singular idiom of the American 
language, expressing grave improbability. 



THE BALLAD OF CASSANDRA BROWN. 

HP HO UGH I met her in the summer, when one's 

heart lies round at ease, 
As it were in tennis costume, and a man's not hard to 

please, 
Yet I think at any season to have met her was to love, 
While her tones, unspoiled, unstudied, had the softness of 

the dove. 

At request she read us poems in a nook among the 

pines, 
And her artless voice lent music to the least melodious 

lines ; 
Though she lowered her shadowing lashes, in an earnest 

reader's wise, 
Yet we caught blue gracious glimpses of the heavens that 

were her eyes. 

As in paradise I listened. Ah, I did not understand 
That a little cloud, no larger than the average human 
hand, 



PUCK. 

Might, as stated oft in fiction, spread into a sable pall, 
When she said that she should study Elocution in the 
fall ! 

I admit her earliest efforts were not in the Ercles vein ; 
She began with, " Lit-tle Maaybel, with her faayce against 

the paayne, 
And the beacon-light a-trrremble," — which although it 

made me wince, 
Is a thing of cheerful nature to the things she's rendered 

since. 

Having learned the Soulful Quiver, she acquired the Melt- 
ing Mo-o-an, 

And the way she gave " Young Grayhead," would have 
liquefied a stone. 

Then the Sanguinary Tragic did her energies employ, 

And she tore my taste to tatters when she slew "The 
Polish Boy." 

It's not pleasant for a fellow when the jewel of his soul 
Wades through slaughter on the carpet, while her orbs 

in frenzy roll ; 
What was I that I should murmur? Yet it gave me 

grievous pain 
That she rose in social gatherings and Searched among 

the Slain. 



PUCK. 

I was forced to look upon her, in my desperation dumb, 
Knowing well that when her awful opportunity was come 
She would give us battle, murder, sudden death at very 

least, 
As a skeleton of warning, and a blight upon the feast. 

Once, ah ! once I fell a-dreaming ; some one played a 

polonaise 
I associated strongly with those happier August days ; 
And I mused, " I'll speak this evening," recent pangs 

forgotten quite. 
Sudden shrilled a scream of anguish : " Curfew shall 

not ring to-night ! " 

Ah, that sound was as a curfew, quenching rosy warm 

romance : 
Were it safe to wed a woman one so oft would wish in 

France ? 
Oh, as she " cull-imbed " that ladder, swift my mounting 

hope came down. 
I am still a single cynic; she is still Cassandra Brown! 

— Coroebus Green. 



131 



THE SWEET O' THE YEAR.* 

ACT I. 
SCENE.— A Lowly Cot. 

Tenant {Tenor). 
Tenant's Wife {Soprano). 
Tenant's Mother-in-Law {Contralto). 
Landlord {Basso). 

TENOR SOLO. 

How happy is our lot, 

Beneath our vines and fig-trees, 
In this suburban spot, 

Among so many big trees! 
Our landlord 's very kind, 

His speech is mild and gentle, 
He never was inclined 

To go and raise the rental. 



* This trifle may derive interest from the music, by Mr. E. C. Phelps, in 
Scribner's Monthly for August, 1880. 



PUCK. 

TRIO. 

How happy is our lot 
Beneath our vines and fig-trees, 

In this suburban spot, 

Among so many big trees; 

How happy is our lot! 

How happy is our lot! 

Enter Landlord. BASSO. 

How do you do? 
Aside. I'll try a few devices; 

I've paid a five-cent fare, 
To see if my premises 

Were wanting much repair. 

TENOR. 

Sir, the whole house neat and nice is, 
And requires no extra care. 

BASSO. 

Aside. Got him there! 

Direct. This is indeed a lovely spot. 

TENOR. 

Beyond compare. 

133 



PUCK. 

BASSO. 

Aside. Got him there ! 

Direct. I think you never find it hot? 



TENOR. 



Fine cool air. 



BASSO. 

Aside. Got him there! 

Direct. Handy to the cars and boats? 



TENOR. 



Pretty fair. 



BASSO. 
Aside. Got him there! 

Direct. Far removed from geese and goats? 



TENOR. 



So we air. 



BASSO. 

Aside. Got him there! 

Think I've got him everywhere 
Direct. Bless you! after so much praise. 

I shall really have to raise. 

*34 



PUCK. 

Mother-in-law. CONTRALTO. 

To Tenor. Oh, oh, oh ! 
No, no, no ! 
Have you the feelings of a man 

To stand such wicked imposition? 
An old house built on such a plan, 
And in the very worst condition. 

SOPRANO. 

The paper's hanging on the wall. 

CONTRALTO. 

The plaster's tumbling from the ceiling. 

SOPRANO. 

The front piazza is liable to fall. 

CONTRALTO. 

Oh, are you a man of any feeling? 

TENOR. 

I won't pay! 

BASSO. 

First of May. 

Intermission — Agent heard without tacking up bill. 
*35 



PUCK. 

ACT II. 

Enter Left — Chorus of Feminine House-Seekers ana 
Chorus of Masculine House-Seekers, waving permits. 

FULL CHORUS. 

I want to see 

TENOR. 

Oh, certainly! 
Be kind enough to follow me. 

FEMALE CHORUS. 

This parlor's rather nice; 

This parlor's rather small; 
Are you troubled with rats and mice? 

Will the landlord paint the wall? 

MALE CHORUS. 

Does the roof leak when it's clear? 

FEMALE CHORUS. 

Are the bedrooms tinted blue? 
How long have you lived here? 
Will the range cook oyster stew? 

Exeunt, R. 

full CHORUS {re-entering, R.) 
It wouldn't do! 

136 



PUCK. 

FEMALE CHORUS. 

It's warm! 

MALE. CHORUS. 

It's cold! 

FEMAT.E CHORUS. 

It's quite too new! 

MALE CHORUS. 

It's quite too old! 

FULL CHORUS. 
I wanted gas! 
I wanted grass! 
We all expected fine plate-glass! 
And shelves for cheese! 
And orange trees ! 
And beds for raising strawberries ! 

I dwell in a marble hall, 
And I couldn't make it do; 

And I don't see how you live at all; 
And I'm much obliged to you. 



137 



THE TENDER HEART. 



QHE gazed upon the burnished brace 

Of plump ruffed grouse he showed with pride 
Angelic grief was in her face : 

"How could you do it, dear? " she sighed. 
" The poor, pathetic, moveless wings ! 

The songs all hushed — oh, cruel shame!" 
Said he, "The partridge never sings." 

Said she, " The sin is quite the same. 



" You men are savage through and through. 

A boy is always bringing in 
Some string of bird's eggs, white and blue, 

Or butterfly upon a pin. 
The angle-worm in anguish dies, 

Impaled, the pretty trout to tease " 

" My own, I fish for trout with flies " 

" Don't wander from the question, please ! " 
138 



PUCK. 

She quoted Burns's " Wounded Hare," 

And certain burning lines of Blake's, 
And Ruskin on the fowls of air, 

And Coleridge on the water-snakes. 
At Emerson's " Forbearance " he 

Began to feel his will benumbed ; 
At Browning's " Donald " utterly 

His soul surrendered and succumbed. 

" Oh, gentlest of all gentle girls," 

He thought, " beneath the blessed sun ! : 
He saw her lashes hung with pearls, 

And swore to give away his gun. 
She smiled to find her point was gained, 

And went, with happy parting words 
(He subsequently ascertained), 

To trim her hat with humming-birds. 



139 



— So good night unto you all. 

Give me your hands, if we be friends, 

And Robin shall restore amends. 

A Midsummer Night's Dream. 



140 




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